


Training Day

by tristesses



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Bloodplay, Bondage, Drugs, F/M, Fights, Knifeplay, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 21:53:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/pseuds/tristesses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Joker stays with Rachel in the warehouse for hours before he burns it down. It's the least he could do, considering she and her lawyer boyfriend are going to die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Training Day

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on 7/26/2008.

She’s vaguely aware of a voice screaming her name, hoarse and a little…tinny? Her eyes flutter open; keeping them so feels like a chore. It’s Harvey, shouting at her from a screen about six feet in front of her.

“Why are you in the television, Harvey?” she says, and giggles a bit at the slur in her voice. Her mouth feels fuzzy, like it’s stuffed with cotton balls, and that’s just about how coherent she is, too.

“Rachel,” says Harvey. He lunges forward in his chair – Rachel entertains a quick daydream of him smashing through the screen and landing on her – then settles back, looking furious.

“Rachel, just listen to me,” he says, a little more controlled this time, but still speaking fast and low. “You’re drugged. The Joker’s got you, he’s drugged you, you need to snap out of it so you can get away.”

Her bangs are falling into her eyes. It’s a rather irritating thing, and she can’t quite listen to Harvey with them there, so she reaches up a hand to swipe them out of the way. But she can’t, somehow, and she twists in her chair to look behind her. Those are her hands, although they look weirdly small right now, and they’re tied together. To the chair. So are her ankles, come to think of it, fixed to each foremost leg with heavy, rough rope. This isn’t right.

“Harvey,” she says, a little confused, her brow furrowed, “Harvey, I’m tied to a chair.”

A frantic little giggle at her right, deep in the dark where she can’t see. She turns her head anyway, but it lolls on her neck. There’s a bit of movement, the scratching of fabric against concrete, as if someone’s crawling on the floor, then silence. Rachel looks at the screen again.

“Where are you?” she asks, the first logical thing that’s popped into her mind since she woke.

“I don’t know,” he says, “some warehouse, I think. It’s too dark to see anything. Can you smell gasoline?”

She sniffs, and yes she can. She has a feeling this isn’t a good thing.

“Yes,” she says, and to her surprise her voice breaks. “Harvey, I’m scared – ”

“Don’t be, they’ll save you.” He stares out of the screen without really seeing her, his thinking face. “Do you see any sharp object? Anything to cut the ropes?”

A slight skittering noise behind her. She cranes her head around and sees a dagger, glittering on the concrete floor, innocuous as a garden snake.

“Yes, a knife,” and she braces her feet on the floor, heaving the chair around to face the knife and somehow pick it up.

“Be careful,” says Harvey, and there’s definite worry in his voice.

“I’m okay,” she replies, right before she knocks the chair over with a resounding crash.

“Shit!” she yells. She’s mostly here mentally but the drug is still in her system; her body parts aren’t doing what she’s telling them to, and now her face and shoulders are smashed up against the concrete, definitely bruised if not bleeding already.

“Rachel!” Harvey yells, but he’s drowned out by the clapping, slow, mocking clapping. Two shoes arrive in her line of vision, shiny and so darkly purple as to appear black. _The Joker’s got you,_ Harvey tells her in her mind. _The Joker Joker Joker_

Fear makes itself known in her stomach, settled like a geode, all hard points and sharp crystals. It’s warm and spreads through her body, leaking out her eyes, emitted from her throat in a feeble squeak. She shakes.

“Why, _hellooo_ , beautiful,” he says, and drops to his knees beside her, pushing his ghastly leering face into hers and _she can see his scars, she can see the scars where the stitches were_ –

“You look different,” Joker says conversationally. “Done something with your face?” His eyes take in her frightened eyes, trembling lips, bruised cheek.

“Or maybe…your hair?” He wraps a chunk of it in his gloved fingers and stands, yanking her upright. The pain is immediate and temporarily blots out her vision; her entire weight is dangling from a fist-sized piece of hair. Until he sets her down, rearranging her, prodding her ‘til she faces the television. Harvey looks absolutely shellshocked, which is nothing compared to how _she’s_ feeling.

“I think you might have wanted this,” says the Joker, and presents her with the knife. Rachel eyes it; words are rampaging through her head but saying anything seems like a bad idea.

“Well?” he says, and astoundingly, he sounds hurt. “Aren’t you going to take my… present? Oh, I forget – ” a manic cackle, “ – you don’t have hands to take it with!”

“I would if you’d untie me,” she snaps, a stupid move but she can’t help it because now anger is flowing through her and taking control of her vocal cords.

“Not yet,” he replies, and he sounds almost joyous, “not until we’ve had our fun.”

He’s tracing the line of her jaw, watching the fair skin give under the weight of his fingers. At her lips he pauses; she’s panting, her mouth slightly open, and he slips two fingers into her mouth, pressing down on her tongue until she gags, a grotesquely erotic thing, and she bites him as hard as she can. He yelps and yanks his hand away, but he’s laughing. So sick. So deranged. Laughing like he’s telling the funniest joke in the world.

“Very clever, I like it when you’re spunky,” he tells her, “but d’you think you can bite on _this?_ ”

He jams the knife in her mouth, she can feel it clatter against her teeth and that brief spark of pain must be the blade against her tongue. On screen, Harvey thrashes, yelling, “Get the _fuck_ away from her, you sack of shit!”

The Joker ignores him, and leans down to Rachel, pressing the knife against her inner cheek, sending a metallic burst of blood into her mouth. He scrutinizes her like she’s a zoo exhibit, greasy hair brushing her skin, clown face nearly against her. His teeth are yellow, his greasepaint smeared and caked into lines on his forehead; it almost looks like he’s been crying, but that’s not possible. Rachel doesn’t dare move, she just watches him.

“Have I told you,” he whispers, “how I got these scars?”

To speak or move her head would only make him cut her more. Harvey shrieks but she can’t attend to his words, not now, not with this man in her face like this.

“What happened,” he says, with the theatrical voice of a minstrel, “and you better listen, because it’s a really great story, what happened is that I went to school. Where there was this kid, this, uh, big fat guy who liked to beat up us littler kids. Take our lunch money, you know?” He moves behind her, sweeping her hair to the side and laying a surprisingly gentle hand on the back of her neck.

“Rachel Rachel Rachel. Miz Dawes. You’ve got such pretty skin. Where was I? Lunch money, oh yes, he’d take our lunch money and leave us in the dirt. Usually. But sometimes…there were kids he took a shine to. You get me? Rachel? The kids who didn’t run. Who didn’t let him rule them. I was one of ‘em. But there was more than that. I was… _specialer_. If that’s a word. Because I laughed, you know? The class clown. So one day, I’m out behind the soccer field, just laughing my laughs, joking my jokes, and he _comes at me_! With his daddy’s knife! And he says, he says, what’s so funny, punk? And I say – can you guess what I say? I say, _why so serious?_ Then it’s I’ll show you serious, he says, and then… _ta-da!_ ” He flings both hands out like a talk show host, a dark presence behind her..

“You’ve told me already,” she says, because the knife’s out of her mouth now, it barely cut her cheek when he jerked it away, and she has to talk. Just has to.

“Did I?” He leans over her, crossing his arms across her chest, placing his chin on her head comfortably. “But was it the same story?”

“No.” She barely breathes it.

“Exactly! If I have to have a past…I like it to be multiple choice!” He addresses the screen suddenly, convivially, and Rachel’s surprised (because she almost forgot Harvey was even there, but she’ll never admit that to herself, _never_ ).

“Enjoying the show, Harvey?”

“You are one sick fucking bastard,” Harvey grinds out, every word sounding like torture. The Joker’s sliding his hand down Rachel’s chest, across her collarbone, to the top button of her blouse. “Get your hands off her, you fucking Nazi.”

“A Nazi?” Joker’s hands pause; he sounds terribly amused. “I mean, I may be a homicidal maniac, but I’m an American homicidal maniac!”

He clears his throat, caresses Rachel’s skin, and begins to sing, his odd chopped vowels and drawn-out consonants even clearer now. “O beautiful, for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain…”

“ _Fuck you_!” screams Harvey, his desperation evident in his voice.

“Thanks for the offer,” says the Joker, “but I can’t. Because you’re in the television. And when I have a lovely piece like this here with me, why would I want you anyway? Especially to… _fuck_.”

He tears her blouse open, scattering buttons across the floor, draws his nails across her skin like claws, leaving bloody rips behind, rakes them across her breast and nipple – she screams, because this is the last pain she’d expect from him, this madman’s always been sexless in her mind, and flings her head back, hard. Joker rubs his face and mouth along her neck, murmuring to her (“Beautiful, Rachel, just _gorgeous_ ”), pressing his cheek to her sensitive skin to she can feel the ropy lines of his scars. And he bites the meaty part of her shoulder where it connects to her neck, not like a lover but vicious like a cannibal, and she keeps screaming, keeps shrieking, and thrashes wildly in the chair. He sighs in her ear and pushes her over. She hits the floor sobbing.

Behind her, he’s behind her again and doing something to her wrists. It sounds almost like he’s cutting her bonds, but that’s ridiculous, except – yes, he is! And now on her ankle, slicing the rope from the chair. She kicks out at him as soon as she’s free but he grabs her leg and holds it while he works on the other one, muttering to himself.

“I don’t get paid enough for this job, girls kicking me around all the time. But I love it, I really really _love it!_ ” He cackles and shoves her away, jumping to his feet.

Rachel tries to stand and can’t; her legs are positively screaming with pins and needles, and whatever drug the Joker gave her isn’t helping. She reaches out to steady herself and whimpers at the pain from her shoulder. Her right shoulder. God damn.

“Why my right shoulder?” she hisses at the painted man, who’s standing still, watching her quietly. “I thought you liked it when I fought you.”

“Oh Rachel,” he says kindly, almost tenderly, “I do.”

At the look in his eyes she tries to run, stumbles and crashes into an oil drum, knocking it over and spilling gasoline all over herself. It’s in her mouth, her hair, her eyes, and she shouts and hacks and cries while he advances on her, laughing with a knife in his hand, chuckling with a lighter in the other.

“Look at you!” he says gleefully. “Look at you, the fear in your eyes, the absolute gorgeous gorgeousity of you! Will you laugh with me when your world burns, Rachel?”

He flicks the lighter. The flame shivers close to Rachel’s drenched skirt, her bare skin, her gasoline-soaked hair. The stench is disgusting but he is just giggling, gulping down air, waving the stuttering flame in front of her face.

“Or will you scream?” His face is so close to her now; she’s shaking and weeping and he’s certain he’s won. “Are you a coward, Rachel?”

She headbutts him, straight in the face, and hears the satisfying crunch of bone, although the top of her head’s now throbbing like someone’s punched it. He yowls and drops the lighter, shoots to his feet and stumbles back a step. She fumbles with the lighter, now unlit, and stands. A little shaky, but operational.

He’s still laughing. Clutching his face, half-moaning in pain and God knows what else, but he still finds this utterly hilarious.

“This’ll teach me to underestimate the girlfriend of…the Batman,” he intones dramatically. He snaps his nose back into place with a groan that’s definitely sensual, and holds his open palms to Rachel. They’re smeared with blood and lipstick, as are his chin and  
cheeks.

“Kill him, Rachel,” Harvey whispers. “Just do it.”

“I hope you will, Rachel,” the Joker tells her in all sincerity.

“No,” she breathes. “I will never be like you.”

“Yes….you will.”

He leaps for her and knocks her to the ground, straddling her. She flails but he’s stronger than her, bigger than her, and when she bucks her hips in a feeble attempt to dislodge him he only groans and grinds into her.

“Y’see, Rachel,” he lectures, groping for a knife in his coat, “going crazy is kind of like falling in love. Not that I know much about that…love, I mean.” He bites at her neck, her breasts, her stomach, leaving deep indentations, making her bleed. “It’s irrational. Unplanned. And it makes you feel so… _alive!_ ”

Rachel whimpers when he presses the knife to her belly, slipping it under the waistband of her skirt. He slits it open, and laughs at her underwear.

“Silky blue panties, Rachel? I go commando, myself.” He presses the length of his body against hers; her wrists are pinned to the ground. “Wanna see?”

“No,” she quavers. “Please God no – ”

“Who’s that? God? I think you’ve got a wrong number!”

He rears back and looks down at her complacently, watching her twist underneath him.

“I think I’m going to cut you up now,” he says conversationally, and slices her stomach.

It’s a shallow cut, and she screams less from pain than from sheer fear. He carves up her body, long thin slices barely deeper than papercuts up and down her torso (“Don’t want you to bleed out,” he says) until her screeches sound far away and tinny to her own ears, so repetitious she’s almost getting bored.

“Too bad Harvey can’t see this, all the way up there,” he giggles, and slips his fingers inside her underwear.

It’s disgusting, perverse, but she’s responding. His thumb’s on her clit, he’s dragging his nail across it softly and she can’t help but moan. Pain and pleasure are colliding inside her brain, and she rather expects the chemical signals are thoroughly fucked up by now.

He’s eased off her now, manipulating her with one hand and staring at her curiously. She twists her hips until his fingers inside her hit _right there_ and she groans again, not a sound of pain.

“Haaaarvey,” he singsongs. “Listen to this, Harvey! I can play your girlfriend like a…a _harpsichord_. She always like this or is she just a slut for me?”

The hand’s gone, and with it goes her temporary paralysis. She rises up on her elbows and tries to crawl away while he fusses with his fly, but he grabs her leg and easily pulls her back.

“My metaphor was wrong,” he explains suddenly as he tears off her underwear. “It’s not like love at all. It’s more like… _gravity_. Going crazy. All it takes is just one… _push_.”

He thrusts into her then, a warped punctuation. His face hovers over her, twisted into a leer, twitching and shaking until he collapses on top of her.

“Nice noises,” he tells her, and imitates her whimpers and moans. “Think Harvey liked ‘em too? Let’s see!”

He shoves her until she’s standing, supporting her from behind, the knife in one hand. For the first time in what feels like hours, she looks at Harvey.

He looks like he’s been punched in the face. He looks like his favorite dog just bit him, or like he’s just been fired. What wounds her the most, though, is how he looks at her like she’s one of them. A criminal.

“Everything burns,” he whispers in her ear, keeping his eye on the screen. “Everything burns, everything fades, everyone can be corrupted.”

“You’re fucking crazy,” she says quietly.

A pause. “No, I’m not.”

“Yes you are, you’re so fucking crazy Arkham can’t contain you. I can’t even believe you’re real.”

She starts to laugh; she’s exhausted and sick and covered in cuts, and she just wants this to be over, any way it can be. The Joker slides his knife in between her lips, and she doesn’t care.

“You get the joke, Rachel, you finally get the joke,” he exults, and begins to slice.


End file.
